


wind and fire

by alexcz



Series: Elemental [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Help, M/M, Post-Sburb, TW Spiders, brief for both those tho, cutes, nothin graphic ily guys too much, tw nightmares, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:17:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1917750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcz/pseuds/alexcz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes you wonder if youre a part of something bigger, beyond your petty human capabilities to understand. but you dont think youd mind if you get to hold his hand through it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wind and fire

**Author's Note:**

> fucking losers

You don't exactly like thinking about things this way, but it has become a bit of a habit that you dont remember developing at any point in your life, and you've learned to expect it from yourself. Sometimes you simply lay in bed, or maybe you're sitting at the breakfast table, or sitting on a park bench, but you will stare at nothing in particular, and think to yourself, "Is this really what I want?". And it's weird that you ask this because, as the lowly Dave Strider, what could you possibly do to change what's going on around you? You brush it off most of the time on your own underlying vanity, greed, and conceit, such a lovely set of traits. But then you think about the things you could change. You wonder why you would even doubt your own choices, why you would doubt the capabilities of these things to suit your own life and needs, but you take one glance at the person laying beside you in your bed, or sitting across from you at the breakfast table, or beside you on the bench and John Egbert will smile at you and you think, "Yes. This is all I want." 

 

Then there's the times you find yourself wondering if this is what he wants. When he has a bad day at work, you make him dinner and make sure he has lots of blankets on the couch to just sit quietly. When he forgets something, no matter how important or mundane, you'll gently interrupt his worried apologies with a soft kiss and tell him it's alright, and next time you'll put a little post-it note on the fridge signed with an asymmetrical heart just in case. But when he wakes up from a nightmare with tears in his eyes and muffled sobs to try and let you sleep, (you've never been a very light sleeper, but thankfully on these nights you're a little easier to wake up. You try to avoid thinking about the potential amount of nights you didn't wake up from this, though), it takes all you've got to attempt to comfort him. He clings to you with watery eyes and babbles quiet apologies into your chest, and all you can do is wrap your arms around him as the rain pours against the windows. Sometimes you wonder if the storms trigger him, or if he triggers the storms, but of course that's a stupid fucking question.

 

You remember the first time you asked him about his dreams. You'd brought it up casually enough, at breakfast after one of his worse nights. He didn't answer you, but rather he got up, grabbed a coat, barely remembering shoes as he stumbled out the apartment, mumbling something about "being back in a second, don't wait up". You'd just kind of stared at the door, wondering what the actual hell had just happened. You were so, so tempted to go after him, but you were conflicted about the whole mess. He basically left in his pyjamas, he couldn't be going far, right? You tried messaging him borderline frantically, until you realised his phone was on the bedside table still. You're pretty sure he knows his way around well enough, but what if he did get lost? If you left, what if he came back while you were gone? That would probably freak him out even more. You decided to stay put and mull over how to address this when he got back.

 

You were on the edge of your seat until seven pm that night. The door opens with one groggy boyfriend walking back over the threshold, and you get up, walking calmly enough to stand in front of him, and he looks at you with a pitiful mixture of shame and exhaustion, to which you heave a sigh and wrap your arms around him, holding him close against your chest. He flinched, to which you internally wince, but he doesn't tell you off save for some slight squirming after you've been standing there for eight minutes and twenty nine seconds. You hesitantly pull back, though keep your hands on his shoulders as if letting go might leave him to just drift away from you again, which you definitely think you're going to be avoiding. You made him dinner and tucked yourselves into bed early, and you were hesitant to bring it back up unless he did it first. He hasn't.

 

But things were fine. You both brought in good money. John was a little more stable with his income than you were, with his rad job at the local radio station, while you were a freelance writer slash photographer. John didn't mind though. Sometimes he would sit with you on the couch between your legs, his back pressed against your chest while you read something over, occasionally pointing out the odd grammatical error, most likely you forgetting to use punctuation from habit. Occasionally you'd write him little raps (re: poems) that he always laughed at you for and kissed your cheeks until they were red. Sometimes he would come home with old vinyls for you in return. You loved it.

 

You argue sometimes, like three weeks ago over the water bill. Apparently you'd been so deprived of showers while you lived with your brother Dirk that when you moved out into your own place with John, you sort of took a little too much advantage of being able to take as long as you damn well pleased. It had been nice while it had lasted. Then again, you try not to dwell on the disagreements you guys have, but you guess that's also a little hard since you don't have too many. There was that one time you inadvertently insulted John's cooking. Now, you don't let anyone get you wrong, John is a fantastic cook and you are by no means a picky eater. But when you don't like something, you really don't like it. So spitting out that bite of ravioli like it was some sort of unfathomable shit that the devil personally shat out his ass probably wasn't the best idea. 

"Dave, what the fuck?" he asks you incredulously, staring at you with your tongue still sticking out of your mouth in distaste.

"...Is that cheese you used doin' alright or," you trail off a little, looking between him and the stupid pitiful piece of half-chewed ravioli sitting dejected on your plate. His brow furrows and you instantly realize your mistake. God, you could have at least said that you just choked or something. He took it relatively well, though. He slapped the back of your head, taking your plate back into the kitchen. You were kind of preparing yourself for some sort of doghouse treatment though, until another plate is being set down in front of you a short while later, and it has a grilled cheese on it and you're so in love with this man you could explode. He mumbles something else about you being spoiled before sitting down on the other side of the small table to eat, and you reach over to hold one of his hands with a grin.

 

Now the weird thing about apartments is that they shouldn't be able to get spiders. But since your floor is pretty high up, of course the spiders you get are jacked and fast as fuck, and you hate it. There was this one, had to be the size of a fucking tennis ball, which counts as the size of a small mouse, which definitely qualified for on-the-chair screeching. 

"John, holy fuck get in here. ASAP," you call out into the apartment, and attempt to encourage him to walk faster by shaking the wobbly chair frantically without losing your balance, but stop immediately when it triggers the spider to start crawling again. "Bring the fucking hammer."

You're frozen, staring it down when John curiously pokes his head into the kitchen, and you turn quickly to glare at him. "Took you fuckin' long enough," you mutter, to which he only raises his hands in front of his chest in a mocking sign of surrender. You immediately turn your attention back to your not-so-little friend, pointing directly at it accusingly. "Kill it. Destroy it. For the love of god, remove it from this plane of existence before I get a sword." 

He rolls his eyes at your dramatic display, settling to get a piece of paper towel from the counter and approach the damn menace like it was a fucking puppy. You watch in a mixture of awe and horror as he just fucking picks it up, like they're old college pals and the little bugger didn't try to give you a heart attack. You frown and watch him like a fucking hawk when he brings it down the hall, following him to make sure he passed your room just in case he got the grand idea to hide it in your sheets as a prank or something, watching the fucker swirl down the toilet forever.

You breathe a sigh of relief, leaning against him as he wraps an arm around your waist. "That was a close one, man," you say with utmost appreciation of his chivalry in your voice. 

"You're such a wuss, Dave," he answers with a laugh, but you just push away from him and walk out of the bathroom like nothing happened.

 

Living in this apartment is great, but space and location weren't ideal for John's piano. His dad had been more than willing to continue taking care of it at his place, which John was grateful for. You'd thought about a keyboard or something, but he brushed it off, saying it just didn't sound the same. You could understand that. John was pretty picky with his music. Your purely ironic guitar was still in your closet, and sometimes John could convince you to play for him.

Like tonight, as he lays on the bed beside where you're sitting up, the guitar nestled in your lap as you strum lazily, watching his eyes droop bit by bit until they're closed, and you smile faintly as you set the instrument aside and settle down into the blankets beside him, reaching somewhat awkwardly to turn your small lamp off, checking that the rubber duck nightlight in the wall across from you turned on. Satisfied with the dull glow, you kiss John's forehead and fall asleep yourself. You were spoiled, you had to admit. But yes, this is exactly what you wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ily all ♥


End file.
